


Lacrimosa

by cerealskiller



Series: Saints and Sinners [1]
Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (2016), Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother/Sister Incest, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerealskiller/pseuds/cerealskiller
Summary: "Alma tried to convince herself, struggling, as if the wind fought against her wings and the concrete refused her departure; it had been not her fault, anything that has happened to her, was her brother's own faults for he had been engulfed in the madness of himself and his ambitions — yet, amidst the things she'd told herself, she doubted if she did deserve it."(deinitely published before, but i've done some damn editing)
Relationships: Alma LeFay Peregrine & Other Peculiars at Miss Peregrine's Home, Jack "Caul" Bentham/Alma LeFay Peregrine, Myron Bentham & Alma LeFay Peregrine, Myron Bentham/Alma LeFay Peregrine
Series: Saints and Sinners [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608817
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely do not condone incest and rape, they are not okay in whatever bullshit you can come up with. These are serious crimes, highly immoral and unethical. I wrote this because the Bentham siblings have always fascinated me and there was probably more to their relationship than we've read.

Jack's grip on her waist tensed possessively as his calloused fingers caressed her soft skin, apparently setting him ablaze with nefarious desires as his eyes, though white and soulless, brewed a hurricane beneath the empty abyss that engraved themselves into her bones. 

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he thought of the potential children from their union, his fingers trailing over the bruises on her alabaster skin between the spaces of her ribs, savoring the delicate arch of her hipbones. They would be the most powerful peculiars the world would ever see, kings and gods, immortal and immaculate and invincible — the thoughts made him salvate in anticipation. He deserved to have himself revel in the victory of his conquest, and he hovered above her.

She trembled in fear, resembling nothing that radiated with authority and determination to lead herself out of imprisonment. He loved every moment of this. Undressing her was a first of many games he had planned for her, he could hardly wait. 

"You disgust me." She finally uttered, trying to disappear from the pain between her legs. Jack's madness became apparent, clearer than the sun, he knew she was his sister, the same blood coursed through their veins yet here he was, leaving bruises and scars on her skin he used his fists and lips to kiss.

"Your resentment doesn't concern me, sister." He said, losing control of the screaming wildfire burning in the catacombs of his bones at the sight of Alma underneath him. He crowned himself the god of the world he built from tarnished youth and slaughter, that would only belong to her and him, the children she'd bear from their union. Altogether, worshipped and feared. 

Alma hitches her hips against him, urging him to hurry and be done with it, for begging and fighting for his violation to stop was proven utterly futile and it is better this way, to ease her suffering at his hands for as long as fate's punishment condemns her for falling blindly into his sinister desires. 

How easily he had defeated her brittle defenses drowns her in shame far too helpless than mourning Victor and Fiona. Alma tries to detach her gaze from the sinful union of their skin, even prays for all the gods she'd never believed in to awaken the smallest piece of sanity lurking in the darkness, somewhere, somehow and hopefully, still alive amidst his obsessions of thinking a sister and a lover could be one. 

"What will your sisters say, Alma?" Jack's words of macabre mockery increases the pain she wants to ignore, and his hands steady her movements, much to her disgust of being reduced to his possessions. He revels in the glory of hearing her cries, grieving for the dignity she'd lost.

Alma's fingers twist the sheets, she could not bring herself to touch him again, not after he threatened to have one of her children brought in to be slaughtered before her eyes. 

"Will they condemn you, sister?" He taunts, kissing her briefly to share the taste of their sin. "Will they resent you for you haven't fought hard enough against your brother who has defiled you? Perhaps, maybe, they thought you've developed a fascination for it."

He doesn't stop like he always does. He goes on, and on, and on until time for an ymbryne such as Alma Peregrine deteriorates into oblivion. Until she finally gives him the reaction he always anticipates upon setting foot at her prison cell and he follows her there too, muttering devious promises of her tragedy and laughing in twisted triumph as he withdraws himself from her, always taking time to admire the sight of their union cascading down her ivory thighs, the crimson splattered across the silken white sheets. 

"Don't worry, I won't share you with Myron." He promises, and kisses her again, determined to leave his ghost nestled between her bones should he die. He has come this far now, with Alma finally at his side constantly easing his frustrations, and immortality is his to enslave.


	2. Hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One brother's jealously devours him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, a lot of shit has been happening in my life lately. i'm sorry, i kinda forgot about this fic. but the quarantine is making me creative again.

Myron's eyes rove over her features, admiring one of the many outstanding traits that secures her a memorable place amongst her sisters and history — should anyone live long enough to see through these perilous times and enchant the new world with their tales — and damn it all to hell, she will be always prettier than them both by body and soul. A sight worth dying for, far more beautiful than the Library of Souls and the glory of their future reign as the twin-kings.

“Myron, please.” Alma whispers almost too gently, and his heart almost aches that his beloved sister has apparently abandoned everything Alma Peregrine once was.

“You're better than this.” 

He is desperate to listen, but his fingers say otherwise as they disappear beneath her nightgown. She winces at the contact of his fingers dancing past the bruises littering her thighs, and he takes her remarkably weak attempts to slither away from him. Having already spoiled by a previous brother and now more than determined not to endure the same damnation with the other, but the bonds are stronger than such futile attempts. 

He wipes her tears away with his fingers like how a meek child would, as if though her skin were made of glass and thinning ice. “I'll be gentle. ” Myron promises with flowers on his tongue, and it won't be surpising if it engulfs her heart with thorns — she weeps quietly in hushed, suppressed sobs for any responses whatsoever appear amusing to both of her brothers; he was entirely too innoccent for Alma to ever think he'd wilfully participate in such unspeakable macabre.

Myron knows as his hands eagerly unbuckle his belt, she tries to resist to be taken simply as helpless as spoils of war, but Jack's prior tortures have exhuasted her and the sound of his trousers hitting the floor with a quiet thud sentences her fate.

“Stop this before it's too late, please.” She says in haste, another pit of dread growing in her stomach. He hopes to every god and goddess, if anyone of them does exist, to know that he seeks the dying light in the pit of his darkness before it becomes nothing but a wisp of smoke.

Completely enthralled by the sight of her underneath him, his skin called for hers in a way neither woman nor man could ever immitate — he parted her trembling thighs gently, anguish filling him that Jack has taken his turn before he could. She felt soft in his touch, cold, and warm, and pretty, and pleasant. 

“Don't do this, Myron, please.” She pleads, “You're better than him, there is still hope for you.”

No, he was just as damned as Jack was. The three of them might still rot together in hell, as bound as they were in life as they would be in death for sins that make Mother and Father roll in their graves. The last time he fucked a woman was the night before the incident in Syberia, she'd been eager, willing to take him, and the beasts in his loins stir; deprive a man of his nature and he will emerge with madness.

“Myron—” She practically screams when he pushes her nightgown above her hips, as he hovers above her. Tears rapidly falling from her eyes, drenching her cheeks. Desperate. “Don't do this, please. Don't let make me do it again, he has already put me through the same thing.”

She isn't Alma Peregrine anymore.

With a sharp inhale, he pushes into her — muffling her screams with a bittersweet kiss — and he sighs in the newfound sensation. Jack has been correct about her bringing pleasures beyond mortal glory, while The Devil laughs in his ear, urging him to go on and snap the last string of control holding him between sanity and complete submission to his apparent desires. He stills within her as she thrashes against the bonds, and underneath him, she is beautiful.

“Oh, Alma.” He says, between depraved breaths. His lips trace over the bruises on her collarbones, and it angers him once more that Jack has spoiled her. “What have you done to me?”

She inhales shakily, lungs filling with needles. “I haven't done anything to you, you damned yourselves.” She says, nothing more than just an honest confession. “Stop this, Myron, please. You're hurting me.”

“Enjoying yourself, brother?” Jack interferes, a humourous beam of a twisted showman as if though they hadn't shared a sister in more ways than one. “I suggest you take all of her clothes off, it's guaranteed to make everything delightfully memorable.”

Myron feels her trembling against him, she could fall apart and slip through the cracks of his skull as he eases further into her. He was right, though, but Myron prefers saving his sister that humilation. “I'm not a fucking monster, Jack.”

He chuckles placatingly, a harsh spat of blatant pity and brotherly love. “Of course. She's magnificent, isn't she?”

Myron nods, his annoyance apparent in the abrupt slam of his hips, and Alma's heart spilling from her mouth and eyes would've sickened him if it things had become bitter unpleasantries. It was a dance between the cold embrace of death and the warmth of life, their shared union. 

He starts to move — he fucks her, slowly at first with a newfound vigor — and he would've stopped had it not felt too good. She meets his gaze, and her eyes were of a scorned woman's appetite for vegeance and slaughter that encourages him to lose himself in her touch. She hasn't stopped crying, and Myron wishes she could just enjoy this.

“I have to warn you, and it is only fair...”

Myron's frustrations gnaw at him; the last thing he needed to do was engage in a conversation while seeking inexplicable pleasures between her legs, each thrust growing faster than the previous, nearly crushing her hips as he moves all too eagerly, eliciting a laugh from Jack upon the sounds spilling from her mouth. 

“I am serious, brother, you might want to be careful.” Jack reminds him with a remarkable hint of sincerity, and Myron nearly drowns, just as his hand undoes one of her wrist. She takes the opportunity to hit him, though weak and frail at this point, he grasps her wrist before she could bruise his cheek, and slams it back down again on the bed, intertwining their fingers together. 

“Why?” He snaps through gritted teeth and it dawns on him that he should be asking himself that, as there is nothing more monstrous than letting a soul suffer an earlier death yet he finds wondrous heights of pleasure in the sin of shared blood and flesh.

“Our Alma is quite special. More delightful than the whores. She buries herself underneath your skin, and it will stay that way.” 

“Shut up, Jack.”

He sighs heavily in a defeated obedience. “As you wish, brother. I'll be taking my leave, enjoy yourself for as long as you wish.”

Myron hears the shuffling of his footsteps, the door opening only to slam close. He wants to bash his skull beyond recognition but he was an only brother, family, and Alma could place a rivalry between them. He pants like a mad scoundrel. She is the one bound, not him, yet he is every bit as helpless as she is.

You want this — Myron thinks to himself as he finds it all too much to take when she begins responding to him in a way Jack has described, her breathing grows quite erratic, her skin hotter — You want this, otherwise you wouldn't have been driven mad by jealousy to find yourself between your sister's legs.

“Myron, you're hurting me.” Alma says, barely in a whisper. He feels her thighs writhing against him, desperate to be free of further humiliation.

She never stops crying. 

There it is — he finds it, that thinning thread of a man's undoing. A familiar sensation. It didn't take long enough for him to finish, and he withdraws, spilling himself on her thigh then on Jack's sheets. He could hope that she'd at least ease her rage, he chose not to conjure a conflict between whose child she could be mothering. She'd give life to another Bentham but Jack prefers it to be his.

“I'm sorry.” He whispers but they both know it isn't an apology nor a mourning, only a mere consolation that he is too monstrous for himself to accept. “I wish the circumstances would have been more different.”

Alma's cold gaze slithers between his bones like a devious serpent, her chest rising and falling from exhaustion. “Swine.”

He's right and she is too, otherwise he couldn't be wanting more yet he only kisses her before he rises and admires the aftermath, thinking about how their brother would react. 

“I told you that all you needed was just a good fuck.” Jack laughs when he exits his chambers.

He gives him a stern gaze, “Our agreement.”

Jack flashes him a smile that doesn't appear unsettling anymore. “I've always been generous, haven't I?”

Of course — Myron clamps his teeth down his tongue with such inhuman force that he nearly chops it off from his mouth, and keeps the words to himself — Jack will always have her for himself, he pats his back a tender goodbye and slips through the door.

When the door slams shut, her screams fill the air. He's supposed to grow weak at his knees, mourn for their pits in hell and for monstrosity they've done, and a part of him that hadn't even been remembered, now lies in an unmarked grave, completely forgotten.

As he passes through the guards as stiff as lifeless corpses, he knows they'd talk about it later. Jack hadn't been exactly discreet about tormenting Alma, and though they were wights, reborn from slaughter and evil, it disgusts him to think that they know what happened. 

Myron thinks of her fate; If death should befall them all, history will remember Alma as a scorned woman haunting the tower and its monsters, but Jack would rather take death than defeat. For now, without the pen and tongues of historians, Alma is damned to a fate far more worse than death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a review

**Author's Note:**

> Jack's obsession with Alma is honestly fucking terrifying and this was loosely inspired by his line of wanting to keep her as his personal slave. He has that nepotistic favoritism that saves her from death and condemns her to a worse fate. Pleaaaaase tell me your thoughts about this one, comment or leave me a message ;)


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